


Why We Don't Listen to Nancy Sinatra

by kiemitsu



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Coffee, Dancing, Flashback, M/M, Nancy Sinatra, New Jersey, Revenge Era, Singing, and Pie!, diner, frank iero - Freeform, gerard way - Freeform, my chemical romance - Freeform, present day, short but sweet, short fic, tour bus days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 12:34:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13434828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiemitsu/pseuds/kiemitsu
Summary: That’s the thing about music. It always takes you back to the moment where you first heard it.-------------------------------------Frank hears Nancy Sinatra's "Tonight You Belong To Me" in a diner in Jersey and remembers the first time he heard it. With Gerard, on a tour bus, high on pills.





	Why We Don't Listen to Nancy Sinatra

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the Nancy Sinatra song, which I recommend looking for on YouTube and listening to before/while reading (or after, because effort). The song just seemed to fit with the whole Frank/Gerard relationship and I've been wanting to write this since I heard the song foreverrrr agoooo and it's been ages since I posted so I hope you all enjoy.

It had been an exhausting night.

The kids were all riled up -- Lily had some issue at school that Cherry was doing her best to make worse, and Miles, unsure which side to take, decided to just hit both of them with a ragged teddy bear as a sign of his neutrality. Frank would pull them apart but once he turned his back, they were back at it. Jamia would pull them apart but once again, after a few minutes the ceasefire would be all but forgotten.

Frank sighed, closing the car door with a satisfying crunch. After managing to figure out how to solve Lily’s crisis and herd everyone safely to bed, he and his wife had sank into the living room couch. Jamia looked over at Frank with that weary smile of hers and he returned the gesture. The trio was a handful, but today felt like a victory. And victory had left him feeling hungry. Between wrangling the kids and sorting out laundry (which wasn’t so bad, just why on earth was there so much of it?), Frank hadn’t given a thought to dinner. It was hard enough to coax the picky twins to finish theirs. So after the kids were asleep and Jamia well immersed in a book, Frank picked up his keys and drove to the diner.

His sigh left a white trail of icy winter in the air and patches of old snow covered in soot and grime from the road lay scattered about the parking lot as he made his way inside. The bright lights and distinctive worn down appeal of the diner was comforting. It was decidedly charming and behind the times, right down to the cliched waitress uniforms. In the back, a jukebox was crackling out a song. That was one of his favorite things about the diner: they still believed in jukeboxes.  
Frank sat down at the end of the counter, the fake shiny red leather cracked in several places, and ordered a coffee and some fries before adding a slice of blueberry pie because he is an adult who can have pie for dinner if he wants. The coffee wasn’t stellar but that was another thing he liked about the place. It wasn’t hand-roasted organic coffee from some exotic country promising you a lifetime of fulfillment -- it was coffee from a diner at 10 pm. And that was comforting.

It wasn’t exactly a busy night. A few couples at the booths, an elderly gentlemen at the center of the counter (three down from Frank). Everything sort of blurred into an ordinary moment. Just a guy having some late coffee and pie (well, and fries) in Jersey. The song on the jukebox faded out and an upbeat string of music began. Frank tapped his foot lightly and there was something familiar about the beat, something that gave him goosebumps before the singer even began to sing.

_I know (I know) you belo-o-o-ng to so-o-o-omebody e-e-e-e-e-else  
But tonight, you belo-ong to me_

That’s the thing about music. It always takes you back to the moment where you first heard it.

\----------------------------------------------

The bus lurched along the highway, leaning the occupants this way and then that in the dark of their bunks. Well, three of the occupants anyway. The other two were, well… blasting old doo-wop music in the common room. Mikey groaned, trying to block the sound with a pillow that had been substantially flattened and had the sound-blocking abilities of a sponge while Bob snored soundly. How he could sleep through the music was almost as much a mystery of how he could sleep through is own snoring. Mikey flopped to the left again. Nothing helped. He was about to march into the common room when he heard Ray’s footfalls and the sound of the plastic curtain-divider thing being ripped back.

“Seriously dudes, turn in down before I turn YOU down!”

Ray’s frankly unimpressive and empty threat was met with high pitched giggles (Gerard) and a derisive snort (Frank) before the pair broke into a stupid fit of laughter and several remarks about just how bad Ray was at being scary and angry. Mikey heard Ray give an exasperated grunt as he pulled the divider back again and trudged back to the bed, defeated.

The two had taken a “delightful smattering of pills” (Gerard’s words) and had since been listening to some playlist they had found god knows where full of doo-wop hits for the last half hour. Occasionally there would be a crash or a thump followed by sharp giggles and laughter and Gerard singing along (or trying to).

“Ray was so mad,” wheezed Frank between laughs.

“Dude doesn’t appreciate the classics,” agreed Gerard, running a hand through his messy black hair which somehow made it even more of a mess. He was intently shuffling through his iPod, eyes trained on the screen. Frank thought that intense stare at something like an iPod was kind of adorable. He watched at Gerard’s mouth turned into a brilliant grin and his thumb triumphantly hit the center button. A cheerful and decidedly not doo-wop song started to play.

“Ooh,” began Frank, “changing up the--”

Before he could finish, Gerard was sauntering toward him in that stage swagger he had, holding the iPod like a microphone as he crooned with the song.

_I know (I know) you belo-o-o-ng to so-o-o-omebody e-e-e-e-e-else_

His eyes were locked on Frank as he reached out his elegant hand to Frank’s cheek.

_But tonight, you belo-ong to me_

The look in his eyes was coy and his grin was cocky. Frank, the pills coursing magic through his veins, felt transformed under his touch.

_And though (and though) we’re apa-a-a-art, you’re pa-a-a-art of my hea-a-a-art_

Gerard pulled Frank up to dance without any grace or coordination.

“Come on, Gee. Nancy Sinatra? Really?” Frank was trying to play it cool but his cheeks burned, trying to contain their joy.

“What, she’s a legend.”

_And tonight, you belo-ong to me_

Gerard’s voice was deeper than Nancy’s. He was practically growling the last lines with a smug sense of sexuality as he pushed Frank back onto the couch, taking center stage for the second melody.

_Way down, along the stream_  
_How sweet it will seem_  
_Once more, just to dream_  
_In the moonlight_

He tossed his hair back and cocked his hips in a ridiculous way that made him look like a first-time stripper and Frank giggled. It was such a thrill watching Gerard perform for him, just him, even if he was probably too high to remember it the next day.

_My honey, I know with the da-a-a-awn_  
_That yo-o-o-o-u will be go-o-o-o-ne_  
_But tonight, you belo-ong to me_

Gerard knew how to keep his audience captivated, and he relished the thought of Frank’s eyes drinking him in, greedy and needy and face flushed. He cast a glance at him under those long eyelashes that he knew Frank secretly adored, smoky and come-hither.

_Way down, way down along the stre-e-e-am_  
_How very very sweet it will se-e-em_  
_Once more, just to dream_  
_In the silvery moonlight_

Gerard seized the swelling of the music and yanked Frank up from the couch, pulling their bodies flush with one another. He hoped Frank could feel how hard he was through the worn denim of his jeans. He hoped he’d be surprised and delighted and just as hard with wanting. Gerard dropped his voice into a sultry and feral growl as he rolled his hips just once for good measure. It was like he could feel Frank’s eyes roll back into his head.

_My honey, I know with the da-a-a-awn_  
_That yo-o-o-o-u will be go-o-o-o-ne_  
_But tonight, you belo-ong to me_  
_Just to lil’ ol’ me_

The song ended with a cha-cha-cha flourish. Frank’s head swam between the words and the lust and the really hard dick that Gerard has pressed against his own throbbing erection. What could he possibly say with Gerard and his salacious little song and dance? His pretty eyes and glittering teeth? Somehow all thoughts of his girlfriend seemed so impossibly far away, replaced by the soft curve of Gerard’s hips and the pale skin of his neck.

“I told you she’s a legend.” The words vibrated in Frank’s ear sending shivers through his bones.

“You,” Frank’s voice was embarrassingly hoarse, “you’re the fucking legend.”

Gerard grinned lopsided against Frank’s ear, “You wanna fuck?”

The strange Catholic guilt Frank refused to feel would come later. Instead the thrilling rush of sex in the common room with all of their friends sleeping a mere two feet away and separated by a nothing flimsy piece of plastic made his heart beat feverish and mad. Maybe it was just the pills. Maybe it was Gerard. Maybe it was feeling lonely. Who the fuck cares? He thought, pushing their tongues together, greedy hands blindly groping tight jeans.

\------------------------------

“Just to lil’ ol’ me…”

Frank’s voice was barely above a whisper. His lips moved almost like he was in prayer and he glanced at the empty counter stool next to him. In his mind, he conjured up the image of Gerard next to him, raising his coffee cup to Frank with a coy grin on his face. The ghost of Gerard past, present, and future found his way into Frank’s life more often than he really wanted to admit. The strange Catholic guilt, he surmised, the image dissolving sugar-sweet into his second cup of coffee.

“You a Nancy Sinatra fan?” asked the aging waitress at the counter, “Saw you singin’ along.”

Frank gave a small chuckle and rubbed his eyes, trying to play off the blush on his cheeks and the ridiculousness of that night.

“Yeah,” he began, “she’s a fucking legend.”


End file.
